A Story a Day Keeps Boredom Away
by PsychoLeopard
Summary: Various HP one-shots and drabbles. Angst galore, some AU because I didn't care for the way the series ended. Please read the warnings. Keywords: birthday, letter, tea, fulcrum. Reviews will be cherished.
1. The Best Birthday Ever

_AN: Basically, I had way too much HP stuff sitting on my hard drive and decided to post whatever was decent and complete. PLEASE read the warnings at the beginning of each chapter! Reviews are welcome, of course._

_Warnings: angst, implied neglect, AU from DH_

_Disclaimer: If I had written HP, it would have been much shorter, much angstier, and much less popular._

* * *

**The Best Birthday Ever:**

On the day Harry turned seven, his relatives left him all alone in the house. They shoved him in his cupboard, but they forgot to lock him in. So, after they left, he had free reign of the house. He helped himself to bread and jam, watched the telly for a few hours, and enjoyed the solitude. It was the best birthday ever.

On the day Harry turned eleven, he met Hagrid and learned about the magical world. He had his first ever birthday cake, made just for him. He got his first birthday present, a beautiful owl who would be his companion for the next six years, from his very first friend. He learned he had money, and parents who had loved him, and magic. It was the best birthday ever.

On the day Harry turned thirteen, he stayed up late the night before like always. To his surprise and delight, owls arrived from his friends bringing gifts. Presents, picked out for him and sent early enough to be there at midnight. He even got cards! It was the best birthday ever.

On the day Harry turned sixteen, he had his first ever birthday party. There was cake to share with his friends. There were more presents than he could believe. There was music, and jokes. Best of all, he spent that day with the people he loved best. It was the best birthday ever.

On the day Harry turned seventeen, he defeated a Dark Lord. By the end of the day he was sweaty, and bloody, and sore, and tired. He had a sword covered in a blood, torn robes, and blisters on his feet. He kind of wanted to throw up or sit down and wail whenever he remembered what he had done. But the prophecy was over, and he was free. As he lifted his face to the sky, he decided that _this_ was the best birthday ever.


	2. Dear Headmaster, I quit!

Warnings: AU, middle of sixth year, spoilers through HBP, teenage melodrama ahead. Also, I was on a vampire kick when I wrote this. This was originally part of an idea for a much longer story, but I nixed it.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

* * *

_Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_It has come to my attention that you are a manipulative old coot with little regard for human decency. The blame for my entire miserable childhood can be laid at your feet. My placement with my aunt and uncle was directly contrary to my parents' will and against the advice of many witches and wizards of sound judgment. Then you compounded the mistake by leaving me completely alone, not once checking on me in ten years. For all you knew, I could have been hit by a car. Not very strategic of you, considering you _knew_ Voldie was coming back and I was the only one who could stop him._

_You knew about the Sorceror's Stone, and if you had only been straight with me, I never would have had to face him when I was eleven. And how is it that you always know everything, but are missing at the crucial moment? Lockhart should never have been left in charge of finding Ginny. I should not have had to save myself from Dementors. I should never have been allowed to participate in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. You should not have kept the Prophecy secret from me, and above all you should not have used me like a pawn. You simply assumed that I would fight your battle, and made sure I felt beholden to you so that I was sure to do so._

_The simple facts are that you could have stopped Tom a long time ago, and you chose not to. This is your mess, not mine._

_Your greatest mistake, Dumbles, was not, as you put it, in 'loving me too much.' Your greatest mistake was in keeping vital information from me and making me dance to your tune._

_Why didn't you tell me the full truth?_

_By the way, your precious Order of the Flaming Turkey made yet another big mistake this summer. Guess what? I was attacked by Death Eaters. Don't worry, I killed them. Downside is they killed me, too. I got a bit of help at the last minute, and my reluctant savior has been seeing to it that I have the skills to survive without depending on "sheer dumb luck" or convenient godfathers to die for me._

_By the way, why didn't anyone give me an emergency portkey or a way to contact the Order or anything?_

_Thanks for finally letting me in on Tom's secret. I know what I have to do now. Of course, it occurs to me that you lied to me about my connection to Snake-face all last year. Did you think I wouldn't want to know that I'm carting around a piece of pure evil? Did it occur to you that maybe I should know that I would have to die to beat your Dark wizard? If I had known, I would have spent the money in my vault much faster, at the very least._

_In some ways, you are worse than dear Tom. He at least has been honest about his intentions. Mass destruction and the desire to rule forever are pretty straightforward motivations. You, on the other hand, have plots within plots all hidden behind that accursed twinkle._

_I'm tired of being taken for granted and abused. I'm sick of being worshipped and persecuted by turns for no good reason._

_I quit._

_Have fun with your power-hungry Dark Wizard. I'm thinking of visiting Fiji. Catch some rays, relax on the beach, that sort of thing._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

_PS: Draco wanted to come along. Seeing as I am the one who got him away from Tom, I figured that'd be ok._


	3. Visitors for Tea

_AN: A little bit of the inspiration for this must go to Piers Anthony's "Incarnations of Immortality" books and to Shujin1 here on FFN for her fic HP & DI. I think she wrote hers first, anyway, since I can't remember when I wrote this._

_Warnings: neglect, small children, symbolism_

_Disclaimer: If I was a world famous writer, would I be scrambling for substitute teaching assignments because I have no income? I think not._

* * *

**Visitors for Tea**

_Black, no milk, no sugar_

The little boy met Death for the first time to remember it when he was five years old.

He was alone in the kitchen. Actually, he was alone in the house, since Uncle was working and Aunt and Dudley were visiting friends. He was hungry, so he had climbed up on the counter to reach the place where Aunt had stashed the easy food. He slipped suddenly, his toes slipping over the edge and his little body following. His head made a loud cracking sound that nobody heard as it hit the edge of the countertop on the way down, and his arm bent at an awkward angle when it hit the floor.

Death arrived promptly, a little annoyed and confused because this had _not_ been on his list five minutes ago. In fact, this particular name was not _supposed_ to be on his list any time soon. That little agreement four years ago made sure of that. So imagine his irritation to arrive in a spotless—well, before it became blood-spattered, anyway—kitchen to find a five-year-old savior-of-the-world bleeding and broken on the tile floor.

Fortunately, the wound was not necessarily fatal. A head wound, a broken arm…piffle, really, especially to a god-like being or a wizard. And since this name should not be on his list, and since Fate would be more than a little miffed if her grand schemes ended now…Death calmly picked the child up and carried him to the sofa in the next room. A few murmured words and a gesture ensured that the wound was healing nicely. Then Death returned to the kitchen to vanish the blood and make tea.

By the time the tea was ready, the boy was stirring. Death sat down across from him in an armchair and watched as the boy roused and blinked in confusion before focusing on his visitor. In a meek and yet brave voice, he inquired, "Who are you?"

"I am…" damn, what to say? Couldn't say "I am Death" to a five-year-old. Fate would scold him for that. She was such a softie with children. "Morte…Mortimer."

"Okay. Are you here to hurt me?"

"Quite the opposite. I came to help."

The boy's green eyes lit up. "What happened? Why are you here? How'd you get in? Are you here to rescue me? You have a funny nose. Why is your skin so white? What are you wearing? Can I touch your shirt? It looks soft."

Death was…nonplussed. He took a sip of tea. "You fell from the counter. You must be more careful. I am here to keep you from dying, but not to take you away, I'm afraid. Doors and locks cannot stop me. This is the nose I was born with and I do not get much sun. This is a cloak and you may _not_ touch it. Any other questions?"

"Where'd you get the tea? Can I have some? I'm thirsty." The child asked in a tone that expected to be refused but couldn't resist asking.

It should be noted that Death was not _completely_ unkind. "It is my own special blend, but you may have a sip." He duly offered it, and a sip was duly taken. It was not quite enough to 'wake the dead,' but it came close.

The boy hummed in appreciation. "Mm. I like it."

Death had just made a friend.

He took his leave shortly after, once he had secured a solemn vow from the boy never to mention this visit to anyone. And the boy never did.

Just in case, Death checked in with the boy once a year or so. Just to make sure the boy had kept his word, of course. Not for any other reason.

He was always greeted with a glad "Tim!" (He never could convince the boy to call him 'Mort' and didn't want to push it.) as the boy put the kettle on. They would sit and drink tea and catch up.

When the boy was eleven and knew he was a wizard, he understood just who 'Tim' was. But he still put the kettle on. He'd be seeing his friend very soon, after all. Very soon or not for a long while.

Harry Potter does not need to flirt with Death, because Death has an open invitation to come over for tea unannounced.

…

* * *

_Green Tea with a hint of lemon_

Lady Luck has known the boy for longer than Death, as she likes to claim. Technically, it's only by a matter of minutes, but Mort wasn't paying much attention at the time—he was a bit busy in 1981, in his defense—so she liked to tease him about it.

Luck _liked_ Harry. He was like her cute little brother whom she loved to tease but would also fiercely defend from all threats. She was there in the nursery on the loneliest of all nights and she did her best to be there in the cupboard and on the playground and everywhere else.

Harry first met Luck to know it when he was sitting on the roof of the school kitchens after escaping from his cousin. He landed on the roof after jumping much further than he expected. He was not properly braced for the landing, but suddenly a pretty girl gripped his elbows and dragged him onto the roof proper, then held him steady while he caught his balance. She smiled and winked and said, "Wotcher, Harry. I'm Felicity. Good job, there. How will you get down?"

And when his nervous teacher and irate headmaster and various other adults demanded explanations, Felicity was whispering in his ear one wild explanation after another. In truth, Harry had a hard time not giggling at some of her ideas. _Really_, leprechauns appearing with a handy rainbow for him to climb was simply too much!

He did not get away scot free from that one, but he didn't mind too much.

She was there on that July day that the first letter came. She was sitting on the counter when he came down to breakfast, primly sipping at a cup of tea. "Wotcher, Harry. Today's gonna be an exciting day. I can't wait! Watch out for the pig's stick, okay? And hold onto what's yours"

Her warnings didn't precisely produce any effect, but it was the thought that counted.

She was standing in the corner of the bathroom waving merrily as Harry removed his wand from a troll's nose, and he knew who she was.

Lady Luck was not precisely on Harry Potter's side, but she was there when he needed her and that was what mattered.

…

* * *

_Earl Gray, with milk and two sugars_

Fate had plans for the Chosen One.

She had laid these plans decades ago, when another of her boys starting down the worst possible path. Some of those plans fell through and had to be altered. Some came to fruition. At last, after long years and heartbreak, came the Choice.

There always had to be Choices in Fate's schemes. Otherwise the mortals got testy.

Once the Chosen One was Chosen, Fate got the ball rolling. A few meddlers got in the way, and Vengeance, and Chaos. But Death was pacified with an agreement, and Luck was happy enough with her role.

If asked, Fate would have gladly informed anyone at all that only half the shit the Chosen One endured was at her hands. She had prepared _some_ tests, of course. But she had nothing to do with the Dursleys, or Dementors, or Ministry Toads. The Dark One's return, yes, she pushed that forward. She had been holding him back long enough, and the timing was right. And the diary, well, she may have nudged Lucius a bit. And the Azkaban escapees, and the tournament and the prophecies, of course. These things were necessary and right.

And she always intended some good things, too. Friends, and love, and joy. And rewards at the end, oh yes.

Even so, when she listened to Death and Luck describe the boy while drinking her tea, sometimes she wished she could apologize. She wished she had the courage to face the scarred little boy she had made her tool, and explain her reasons. He deserved to know.

She did not realize he already knew, and forgave her in some small way. Someone had to be it, after all, and it was just his poor luck that it was him.

Harry Potter has never met Fate face to face, but he knows her better than she knows herself.


	4. HP Drabbles 1

Drabbles (Number 3 is exactly 100 words! I'm so proud of myself…)

_Warnings: none_

_Disclaimer: Why yes, I am JKR. These are just scenes I forgot to include, is all. Kidding. Naturally I don't own anything._

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"…Honestly deplorable manners. Were you raised in a _barn_, Potter?" The snide comment does not make him flinch, though it is a close thing.

"Cupboard, actually."

Before his adversary can do more than blink and try to process the offhand retort, he has walked away. He doesn't look back.

--

* * *

Sneering, Snape reluctantly thrust a potion in the brat's face. "Drink."

Without hesitation, Potter accepted the vial and tossed back the contents. The faintest of grimaces passed over his face before he handed the container back and turned back to work.

--

* * *

Gred and Forge lightly went down the steps, mindful of any squeaky stairs. They glanced longingly around as they stepped onto the ground floor, but Harry was waiting. The cupboard was right where Harry had said it would be. George kept watch while Fred picked the lock.

Success. The door swung open. The trunk was just inside, making their job easy. Fred reached in to grab it, and froze. In the pale light from the streetlamp outside, he could just make out a piece of paper stuck to the wall.

The words, in a child's careful lettering, read, "_Harry's Room."_


	5. A Cure for Heartbreak

_Warnings: AU, implied SLASH (H/D), angst, tragedy, somewhat uncertain ending_

_Disclaimer: Thankfully, JKR wrote HP, so this is not how the real thing ended._

* * *

**A Cure for Heartbreak**

"No." There were a thousands meanings in that little two-letter word. Harry understood them all.

They were not friends. They were not allies. They were not equals. They could not talk. They could not coexist. They could not be. They would never be anything but enemies and rivals.

Harry wanted Draco Malfoy more than he had ever wanted anything. There was just one problem.

Malfoy absolutely did not want him.

Harry bowed his head and walked away. He understood.

He was not attractive. He was not smart. He was not safe, or sane, or decent. He was not special. He was not capable of being loved.

He understood, for the thousandth or millionth time, that he would never be cherished. He had had his chance, once, sixteen years ago. The only people who would ever love him without reservation were dead. Dead because of _him_. He didn't deserve to be loved.

So he simply walked away, ignoring the snickers and stares.

He waited until after dark. Once Ron and Neville were snoring, and Seamus and Dean were both asleep too, he got up. He had never changed out of his clothes, so he didn't even need to dress. His invisibility cloak was tucked under his pillow with the Marauders' Map. His wand and glasses were on the nightstand. He pulled a note from his pocket and left it on his pillow. Then he closed his bed curtains—just to keep them from worrying if they woke in the night. And he left.

The common room was empty, the fire mere coals. He didn't pause as he padded soft-footed toward the portrait hole. The Fat Lady barely stirred as he pushed past her. He donned his cloak and made for the statue of the one-eyed witch.

Breaking out of Honeydukes was a little annoying. He kept pausing to make sure the sounds he was hearing were just his imagination. Eventually, though, he was out. He let the wards snap back into place—and thank Bill for teaching him to do that—and set off down the street.

He walked right through the town in his invisibility cloak. It was too late for anyone to be on the streets, but he was taking no chance. Besides, it wasn't quite late enough for the tavern to close. He could dimly make out shouts and laughs from the Three Broomsticks. He didn't look over at it.

Once he was beyond the town, he apparated. All around him, broken tombstones bore witness to his mad decision. Harry took a deep breath and dropped his occlumency.

"Here I am, Tom. Come and get me, if you dare," he whispered into the night. Then he set about transfiguring anything and everything.

He didn't have to wait long. It was probably only half an hour later that Voldemort arrived, looking annoyed. Harry didn't even look up from a particularly difficult charm. He had finished transfiguring the rocks and broken tombstones into furniture some time ago, and was now endeavoring to make them dance.

Voldemort probably had some great, terrifying speech planned, but he abandoned it quickly. "Potter, _what_ are you doing?"

"Good evening, Tom," Harry greeted him calmly, ending his charm and turning. "How would you like to finish the prophecy, tonight?"

Voldemort glared. "What trick is this?"

Harry spread his hands, carefully not pointing his wand at anything. "No trick. I'm just tired of it all. Get up, get dressed, be praised and admired for no reason, survive another attempt on my life, get offered a lemon drop in compensation. It's tedious. I want it done, one way or another. What do you say?"

There followed a long conversation setting out rules and conditions and what-have-yous. Eventually, though, they got around to the good part.

Harry wondered what Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore would think. He wondered if Draco would care. He wondered if they would bother to tell the Dursleys. He wondered what would happen next, and what the hell happened to his survival instinct.

He wished Draco would have said yes.

"_Avada Kedavra."_


	6. Fulcrum

_Note: This was sitting mostly done for awhile. Just a little something exploring how Harry can be the center of the universe, sorta. Feedback would be appreciated, as always. Possible SPOILERS for all 7 books.  
_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related to it belong to JKR and whoever she allows to have the rights to it. That would not be me._

**

* * *

Fulcrum**

Though neither Dudley nor his parents would ever have the cognition to consider this, Dudley's childhood was defined by his cousin. He always had to have _more_ than the freak. More food, more toys, more love. His parents showed him his worth by giving Dudley everything he ever wanted and giving his cousin none of it. It wasn't until he was much older that Dudley began to understand that neither of them had had a normal or healthy childhood.

Ron and Hermione would never have been friends without Harry, let alone anything more. Ron originally thought Hermione was a bossy know-it-all and she considered him unmannered and loutish. While neither opinion has changed much in essentials, both consider there to be more important things in life to worry about, like mountain trolls and dark lords and Harry himself.

The thing Draco Malfoy hated most about Harry Potter was that he always meant less to Potter than the boy meant to him. To Draco, Potter was the undeserved celebrity who had scorned his friendship, the Quidditch player he couldn't beat no matter what he tried, the schoolboy who bested his father and his master. To Potter, though, Draco was just a school bully and an annoyance. Even once he took the Dark Mark, he was still just one of many. He was not Potter's greatest enemy. He didn't even make the top five.

Sirius Black failed in his duty as Harry's godfather for many years. He was well aware of this, and swore daily to make it up to James. He tried, so hard, but it was difficult, what with living on the run as a fugitive and then fighting Voldemort. And Harry looked _so _much like James; sometimes it actually hurt, and sometimes he forgot the differences between them, and sometimes he was angry that he was here when James was not. So he bought Harry gifts and he gave advice and he came at a run when he was needed. But he knew it would never be enough, because he couldn't undo his mistakes, he couldn't bring James back, or undo Harry's childhood, or even bring the boy to live with him as he had promised.

Severus Snape remained haunted all through Harry's school years. The boy was almost an exact copy of his cursed father, who had been a bully and a tormentor in his own school days and taken the only thing he cared about. Snape could have done without the constant reminder of his wretched childhood. To compound the insult, as if that wasn't bad enough, the boy had to have _her_ eyes. Every time the boy looked at him with betrayal in his eyes, Snape felt fifteen years old again with the echo of that disgusting word still on his lips. He _loathed_ that feeling of guilt, but he couldn't seem to escape it. Not even protecting her son could exorcise his demons.

Ginny Weasley grew up hearing the tale of the Boy Who Lived. It was her very favorite bedtime story. The best part, better than all the other fairy tales, was that the hero was _real_ and he was _her age_. For years, she dreamed of meeting the boy-who-lived, of him rescuing her, of falling in love and getting married and being happy. And then it happened. She met him, he did save her. Her dreams were all coming true. Sure, she had to work a little at it, since he was so hopelessly oblivious, but she could not, would not settle for less than the full fulfillment of her deepest desires.

Peter Pettigrew's life was bound irrevocably to his friends' son and his master's enemy. First, when he betrayed the Potters' location to his master and inadvertently brought about the latter's defeat. Then, when he was entrusted into the safekeeping of an eleven-year-old redhead who promptly befriended a bespectacled brunet on the Hogwarts Express. And most damning of all, when Harry Potter interceded on his behalf with the friends he had betrayed. Oh yes, he owed his life and more to Harry Potter, a fact he feared and hated. Feared, because he was certain it would mean his death one way or another, and he never wanted to die. Hated, because even now, he would far rather be Uncle Peter, one of Harry's honorary family. But that was an impossible dream, and it was his own cowardice that had made it so.

Luna Lovegood thinks Harry is just about the realest person she has ever known. He never laughs at her, or tells her she's stupid when she talks about Nargles, or steals her things. He calls her strong, and teaches her to defend herself, and sometimes even tells her his problems. She feels honored by the trust he has shown her, the friendship he has offered. He is sweet and genuine and so very confused sometimes, but it's endearing. But she never can understand how other people can rebuke her for believing in Snorkacks and Humdingers when they are just as fanatical about the Boy-Who-Lived. Can't they see that the hero doesn't, couldn't exist as they imagine him? He's Harry Potter, someone infinitely more worthwhile than any silly title.

Before the brat was even born, Voldemort planned and plotted. He took the scrap of a prophecy his loyal death eater had brought him and considered the likely outcomes. He might like to deny that the half-blood infant could ever be more than a nuisance, but that niggling doubt wouldn't leave him be. Deciding to off the boy before he could become a threat backfired terribly, and his subsequent attempts met with continued failure through no fault of his own. For seventeen years, Voldemort worried more about defeating one messy-haired boy than about taking over the world. Despite that, he still lost in the end.

One of the hardest things Albus Dumbledore ever did was hang all of his schemes on a tiny, green-eyed boy. From that first day in November; no, from that night in the Hog's Head with Sybil, he had laid his plans. How to bring the prophecy about, how to guide and teach the boy, how to prepare him to be the final sacrifice. He was planning a chess game hundreds of moves ahead, in a game that might someday have to be able to play itself. And for ten years, he congratulated himself on his brilliant schemes. Then he met Harry, for the first time in a decade, and he faltered for an instant. The boy was so beguiling, so innocent, so very easy to cherish and admire. If he had ever had children, this boy would have been his ideal grandson. Someone to mentor with his wisdom, someone to protect with his power, someone to pass his legacy onto. Not someone to be sacrificed to a madman, if he had had a choice. Alas, there was no one else, and the greater good demanded a high price. The pawn must be risked in order to make it a knight and bring down the enemy's king.


End file.
